


Its Fruit Was Sweet to My Taste

by ObliObla



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, Light Angst, POV Lucifer, Post-Season/Series 04, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 04:37:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20221930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: Lucifer loves Chloe’s thighs.For Lucifer Bingo prompt: saints





	Its Fruit Was Sweet to My Taste

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Arlome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arlome/pseuds/Arlome) for her beta help!

Lucifer loves Chloe’s thighs.

He loves all of her, of course—would and does worship her mind and soul as readily as he’ll whisper his prayers into her warm skin, affixing his promises between her legs like stars on celestial spheres. But there’s something about the glorious contrast of strength and softness that has his hands trailing down to touch whatever she allows him, and she offers him such mercy that he gladly sinks to his knees before her whenever she desires.

This night he trails from her lips to her breasts and down further with his journey of kisses as she leans against one of the stone columns that frames the entrance to his bedroom, her hand tight in his hair, loosening it from its constraints. She delights in cracking his mask, he knows, and he revels in the pleasure she feels to tease out his curls, smudge his eyeliner, and impose the marks of her desperation on his suit jacket and vest. Her jeans are still on, and he teases her, breathing her heat through the denim and exhaling raggedly.

She gasps when he carefully runs his tongue under the edge of her waistband, less, in this moment, for her own satisfaction than for his all-consuming need to hold her savor in his mouth. She tastes of salt and a glorious tartness that has him humming his pleasure, plucking at the button on her pants with a well-practiced mouth, drawing the fabric down those sainted thighs, continuing down, bowing his head to press his lips to them, to knees, to calves, to ankles. He leans back up to nuzzle against her still clothed center and take her anchoring hips in his hands. He presses his forehead against her stomach and lets his eyes fall closed.

He can hear her heart beat, hear her breath escape her lungs; hear the quieter rumbles of digestion and the rush of blood flowing through her veins. He feels the gentle twitch of muscle under his fingers and her nails as they scrape softly against his scalp, and these sensations are a symphony he is blessed enough to witness, a mantra echoing in his mind. She is here. She is here with him. She is safe.

She is safe.

She shifts against him and looses a soft but frustrated sigh, and he pulls minutely away to look up and meet her eyes.

“_Please_.”

And he does not deny her. Can’t, in truth. He is the font of all passion, but he springs forth for her alone, at least in this moment, in this manner. In the liminal space between breaths he strips away the last of her clothing and presses forward, again, to taste.

She holds the ocean within her, and bitter rain fallen to the earth, and he tilts her hips gently to explore their depths, discovering such heat and splendor he loses himself, panting and moaning against her, desire stirring between his own legs, flames stoking along his nerves.

She grips at him and pulls him to wherever she wishes, and he encourages her possessiveness. He _is_ hers, after all. All the light in his lunar soul is a reflection of her own radiance, and he wishes to drown in the luster. He waits until the waves peak and diminish again to lift her founding thighs onto his shoulders and carry her to rest on the mattress.

She keeps him where he is, and he rejoices in her readiness, sounds turning louder and unrestrained as he licks and suckles and buries his face further between her legs. She bucks against him and unravels a little more, yanking at his hair to bring him back up to her mouth and lick against his lips. She hums and wraps an arm around his shoulders, reaching down to take ahold of him, making him jerk in her grasp and whine into her mouth.

“Someone’s eager,” she whispers teasingly, though the effect is somewhat ruined by her throaty moan as he slips two fingers down to touch her, though he only nods in assent, thrusting against her palm.

“Yes,” he admits, willingly and without shame. He pants softly. “I want you, Chloe. I…” Words fail him, so he marks out her pleasure with careful bites, exploring her shoulders and chest and peaked nipples, etching his desire and his love into in her skin. With a final sucking kiss above her collarbone, he holds himself over her.

She takes him in hand again and his head falls forward, curls tangling with hers. “I want you too,” she murmurs into his ear, though a different word crawls into his brain and he can’t make himself care, can’t make himself fear the endless drop he knows awaits him. Not when she’s here and so hot as to be feverish. When they both are, blazing in the night, revolving in harmony, for a time, before colliding into a supernova of light and heat.

She pulls him to her, canting her hips to meet him as he moves where he’s bid, slowly, languidly, yet so much faster than his mind can properly comprehend, and he can do nothing but gasp and look into her eyes as she struggles to keep them open. He would call this true divinity, but nothing drawn from Heaven could ever burn this purely, no saint in the throes of holy ecstasy cried half as sweetly as she does, making and unmaking him with each careful slide and every aching thrust.

Her mouth opens, and she keens, high and strong, though it’s nearly drowned out by his own low groan as she tightens and drags her fingernails down his back. His wings make known their desire to touch the air, but he restrains them. So too do his eyes make to burn with fire, but he is not the lightbringer here; he is not the prince of darkness. He is as naked and uncomplicated in his devotion as Adam and, though they’ve tasted the fruit, he will not let her be cast from this garden, will not hide away in shame. Will stand proud before even the Almighty as he draws his broken, battered soul from his chest and gives it to her to do with what she will.

Sound and sensation crash back onto him as they near the yawning abyss together. He holds himself on that precipice, right on the edge of plummeting. When she comes, it’s quiet, all the noise and energy stolen from her, but he feels it thrum through him all the same, can hardly feel anything else. As she clenches and breathes he holds off for a further moment, waiting for the fluttering of her eyelashes, before he buries his head in her hair, and lets himself fall.


End file.
